


Because The Night

by Starlingthefool



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: AU, M/M, Modern AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-05
Updated: 2010-04-05
Packaged: 2017-10-08 17:37:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/77917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starlingthefool/pseuds/Starlingthefool
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seattle Punk!Au: cheap beer, mohawks, piercings, and punching skinheads in the face. Also, sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Because The Night

**Author's Note:**

> Someone requested an H/W Punk!Au on the Sherlock Holmes kinkmeme. Takes place in Seattle in the 90's (because I know next to nothing about British punk), and in true Seattle punk style, features a lot of name-dropping. Apologies for that.
> 
> Update, 2017: edited to take out some gross ableist language.

Holmes first sees the blond guy at Funhouse. Tall, sporting a short mohawk like he was born to wear it, dressed in black jeans and an open vest, with a number of chains and leather straps on his neck and wrists. He's watching the pit, and catches Holmes' eye for a second. Holmes is in the middle of a vortex of sweating, thrashing bodies, so the blonde doesn't get more than an interested glance, before Holmes gets pulled back.

***

It's three days later when he sees him again. He's walking past another club on Pine, a bottle of whiskey in a paper bag, heading home. His plans for the evening are to get drunk, listen to Crass, and read Rimbaud again, because it's been that kind of fucking day.

He almost doesn't hear the noise of the fight over the music thumping from the club. It's the shouted "Fag!" that catches his attention. He tenses, thinking it's meant for him. This wouldn't be the first time he's gotten jumped in Capitol Hill. Then Holmes hears the noise of the fight – muffled thumps and curses and grunts – and sees the outlines of men in the mouth of an alley.

He notices several things simultaneously. First, it's two men on one. Second, it's a pretty even fight, despite that. Third, one of the the aggressors is wearing a jacket decorated with an iron cross. His head is shaved.

Holmes hates skinheads. His hand tightens around the neck of the whiskey bottle.

Holmes recognizes the blond from the club seconds before a lucky hit sends him down. The boots start flying, and Holmes doesn't even think before he crosses the street.

They don't even hear him coming. He swings the bottle down onto the head of one of them, gratified when it connects solidly onto his skull and doesn't shatter in his hand. Two punches to the chest and one to the jaw floors the other one.

"Fuck Nazi skinhead punks," he says, standing over them. "Fuck off."

He watches with no small amount of satisfaction as they drag their asses back onto the street, then turns his attention to the blonde. He's on his knees, one hand wrapped around his ribs, the other pushed against the wall.

"You okay?" Holmes asks.

The blonde nods, but doesn't speak.

Holmes is disinclined to believe him "Your ribs?"

"Bruised," he says. "But not broken. Fuck," He stands, slowly, leaning most of his weight on the brick wall.

He's taller than he looked when Holmes saw him at Funhouse. Better-looking too, even with the dirt and blood smeared on his face.

"You got a cigarette?" the blonde asks. Holmes pulls out his pack of Pall Malls, lights two, and then passes one over. "Thanks."

"We should probably go," Holmes says. "Before they come back with a dozen friends."

"Fucking skinheads," the man groans. He takes a step towards Holmes, limping heavily. He catches the look Holmes gives him, and waves it off. "Old war wound. Don't worry about it." He says it ironically, but Holmes wonders if there's some truth there.

Holmes follows him out of the alley. "You got a place to stay?" he asks. The man's boots tell a story of rough traveling, and he smells like sweat and the kind of soap you get in gas station bathrooms.

The other guy shoots him a look. "I've got my truck," he says plainly.

"Probably not parked anywhere close by." All the free parking is at least fifteen blocks away.

"No. Why?"

Holmes hesitates for a second before saying, "My place is only a couple blocks away. You can – I mean if you want, you can at least clean yourself up there. And there's a couch. If you want a place to sleep, I mean."

The blonde just stares at him for a moment, then looks down. "Yeah, okay. Thanks."

Holmes takes a drag on his cigarette and gestures uphill. "It's this way. I'm Holmes, by the way."

"Holmes what?"

"Just Holmes." He is _not_ going into the story of his first name.

The man smiles crookedly. "John Watson." His hand is cool and rough when Holmes shakes it.

***

Holmes hides his drugs, wallet, porn, and sex toys while his guest is in the shower. He tries not to think about how long it's been since there was another person in his studio apartment, or the last time he actually cleaned it. He goes through his records, debates between the Buzzcocks and Patti Smith, and then chooses the latter. He picks up the Rimbaud book he'd planned on reading tonight, then puts it down after a few pages. He grabs a can of beer out of his fridge – mourning the lost whiskey for a moment – and pops it open just as the shower turns off.

He pulls out another beer as the door opens. John comes out of the bathroom, steam billowing around him. He's shirtless, barefoot, and the black jeans that Holmes gave him to wear are slung low on his hips. There are a number of colorful bruises and scratches on his torso, an impressive scar on his shoulder, and...

Holmes stares, beer halfway to his mouth. John Watson's nipples are pierced. Holmes blinks, then takes a long sip of beer. He runs a hand through his messy hair, trying not to be too obvious about enjoying the view. He passes a beer over to John, sits down on his futon, and they start to talk.

 

John Watson was not being ironic with his war wounds comment. He signed up for the army when he was eighteen and "really fucking stupid", in his words. He has been traveling for the last six months, living out of his truck while looking for a place to settle down for a few years. He's been in Seattle a week. He loves Patti Smith. He unabashedly examines Holmes' book collection, paging through the collections of Bataille and Bakunin.

They make steady progress through Holmes' twelve-pack of Rainier. Holmes lets John choose the next record, and he puts on the New York Dolls, Johnny Thunders slurring out of Holmes' speakers. They talk about philosophy, the times they've been jumped by skinheads or rednecks, anarchy, music, and why John loves Seattle despite the fact that it's trying to kill him.

Holmes finds himself staring at the pulse point in John's throat when he says, "That's just her way of showing affection."

"I can think of less stupid ways to show an interest."

"You're in the wrong town if you want people who adhere to social norms," Holmes says, unable to curb the defensive tone.

"Do you hear me complaining? I don't mind playing rough, especially if this is what I get out of it." He shoots Holmes a rather significant look and drains the rest of his beer.

Huh. Holmes pauses a second, then says, "Rough?"

John grins. Holmes' skin breaks out in goosebumps. He looks away from the smile, and his gaze lands on the small steel rings in John's nipples.

"I can do without the gay-bashing," John says, as Holmes drags his gaze back up to his face. "But I can't fault Northwest hospitality."

Holmes swallows. "I wasn't expecting anything when I invited you back here."

John stands up, draining his beer. He stalks over to Holmes, crouches directly in front of him, and takes the cigarette out of his hand. He takes a drag and then lets the smoke drift out his nostrils. "If you had, I wouldn't have come with you."

Then he tamps it out in the plate that's been serving as Holmes' ashtray. He looks at Holmes, and puts a hand on his thigh.

"Can I –?" he asks, and that vulnerable question turns Holmes on as much as the proximity.

"Oh, fuck yes," Holmes answers, and before he has time to be embarrassed by his overeagerness, John darts forward and kisses him roughly. His arms go around Holmes' chest and grab handfuls of his shirt, pulling him forward. Holmes grabs him, tugging on his hair, pulling John's head back so he can bite that pulse point that's been entrancing him all night. John groans loudly in Holmes' ear, and starts yanking at Holmes' shirt in an effort to free him from it. Holmes helps him, tearing it off and throwing it onto the ground, before pushing John backwards onto the floor.

John grunts, not a sexy noise but an uncomfortable one. "Ribs," he says, warning Holmes as the other man straddles his hips.

"Sorry." He tugs on one of the studs piercing John's nipples, smiling when the other man arches his back. "Let me make it up to you."

John does some kind of maneuver that ends with Holmes on his back beneath him. His hand fists in Holmes' black hair, and he licks a wet stripe up Holmes' jaw, growling softly. Holmes grabs his hips, thrusting up against them.

Holmes hasn't been kissed like this in years. Not since Irene, and that aggression had been from mutual frustration. This is hot and hard and rough and feral, just because it can be. Because that's how he likes it, and apparently how John likes it. Thank fuck for that.

They wind up back on his futon, losing their pants somewhere in the process. Holmes pushes John down on his back and then bites his way down his chest, nipping at a jutting hip bone before taking his cock in his mouth. The noise John makes is loud, unrestrained. Holmes spares a moment to hope that it wakes up his neighbors, who have been torturing him with their loud and obnoxious sex for months.

John pulls Holmes around for access at Holmes' own cock, running his tongue down the shaft, cupping his balls with one hand. He grips Holmes' thighs and ass, fingertips digging into the pale skin. It doesn't take long before Holmes is completely distracted from what he was doing, and is instead panting and groaning from the core of his stomach. He half-wants John to slow down, try and stretch this out a little longer, and half-wants to just come down his throat right fucking now.

Logic wins out, and he taps John on the shoulder until the other man stops. "Give me a second," he tells him. "It's... it's been awhile."

John blinks, then smiles lopsidedly. "Yeah. Okay." He bites Holmes' thigh softly. "In the meantime, though..." He trails off.

"What?"

"Do you have lube? Because I wouldn't mind, uh–"

Holmes raises his eyebrows, because John flushing, with his pupils dilated with desire, is an extremely rewarding sight. "Yeah. Let me find it. Do you top or bottom?"

The other man swallows. "Both. Either."

Holmes feels a grin split his face. "Oh good. We can switch off, then."

 

Bent over at the waist, hands in fists on the wall, sweat dripping down his face, thighs quivering in an effort to keep upright while John is pounding relentlessly into him, Holmes deliriously reflects that he has never before had reason to feel grateful to a bunch of gay-bashing neo-nazis.

 

They collapse onto Holmes' futon sometime around dawn.

"Fuck," John gasps. "I haven't had sex like that since the army."

"Unh," Holmes says, face down into his pillow. He's too well-fucked to be bothered by his lack of eloquence.

John pulls a cigarette from who-knows-where and lights it. "Are you good?"

"Unh."

John snorts a laugh. After a beat, he asks, "Can I... is it cool if I stay?"

Holmes answers by pulling his comforter around the both of them and leaning into John's warmth. The last thing he feels before falling asleep is John's fingers carding gently through his hair.

 

Holmes wakes the next morning to the smell of coffee and frying onions, and the sounds of the rain and Pansy Division. He's confused for a minute; usually the only things that greet his return to consciousness are the smell of stale cigarettes and maybe his neighbors screaming at each other.  
Then he moves, feels the pull of sore muscles, and remembers. His entire body flushes for a second.

He pulls on a pair of black jeans that are crumpled on the floor, zips them, and makes his way to the kitchen. Two stunning sights await him there; the first is John, clad in a pair of Holmes' briefs, frying eggs and potatoes on the stove. The bruises on his back are worse this morning, but the bite marks on his shoulder set them off quite nicely.

The second sight is his sink, which, for the first time in recent memory, is empty of dirty dishes. He finds them neatly stacked up on the drying rack that he rarely uses. He can actually see his counter.

"What did you do to my kitchen?" Holmes blurts out.

John turns and raises an eyebrow at him. "I cleaned it, so I could cook breakfast for us."

Holmes stares at him.

"I think the words you're looking for are, 'Thank you. I will show you my appreciation in several inventive ways after we eat.'"

Holmes takes a step closer, examining the linoleum. "I don't think I've seen the kitchen counter since I moved in."

John snorts, then hands him a cup of coffee. "Sorry for trying to be a good guest."

Holmes takes it and sits down on one of the stools in front of his kitchen table. "This is surreal. All of it." The last twenty-four hours seem like a dream.

He sees that John is watching him warily, and Holmes realizes that he sounds like an ass. Holmes takes a sip of his coffee, and says, "Sorry. I'm not good at the morning after."

John's face twitches, and he turns back to the eggs. "Should I go?"

Holmes looks up at him. "No. No. I told you last night, it's just been a while since I did this. But trust me, I could get used to it." He thinks for a moment about what he just said, and how presumptive it could be construed. "I mean–"

"Don't worry about it," John says, but the tone is friendly rather than brusque, so Holmes relaxes a little bit. John pulls two plates off the drying rack and starts spooning food onto them.

"I wouldn't mind if you stuck around a while," Holmes says quietly, half into his mug. "You know, here in town."

John puts two plates of eggs, potatoes, and toast on the table and sits down next to him. He's grinning a little, not quite meeting Holmes' eyes. "Yeah. Maybe I will. I'm liking it here more and more."


End file.
